Beckham had come far over the centuries. He had managed to work through societies and live between different cultures. He slowly learned the temperance he had been born lacking, and in the beginning of the second Millennium, he had decided to re-enter public life, after laying low after murdering a shoe manufacturer and blaming two Italian-American anarchists in the early 1900s, and then killing an American president with his bullet breath a few decades later.

He had become a master of silent propaganda and orchestration of the human drama, but his euro-trash troll brain had prevented him from ever actually learning the language. He had re-emerged as an unnaturally gifted athlete, though managed to make nothing about his childhood known. It was because he didnt have one, and was born of the blood of a thousand orphans in a satanic ritual, in case you didnt read that part earlier. I don’t blame you, I actually dont remember writing it, but I think its in there.

After an unnatural rise in popularity, some dipshit executive somewhere thought it would be a good idea to bring the inventor of futbol and celebrity to America and pay him a bunch of money for it. He came over and immediately began to advertise the way he had in countries that couldn’t understand his limited grasp of English, and carried the same confidence about the gibberish that he puked out of his mouth.

But the season had not gone well, and the new audience had trouble understanding what he was saying, or why he was advertising products that had absolutely nothing to do with him or the roots of his perceived celebrity. Its not that these people were smart, they just couldnt tell what the fuck he was talking about most of the time.

So in the face of this audience, he grew silent. The tabloids wrote endlessly, and he granted no interviews, his private life was a mystery and the speculation spun endlessly.

His self-imposed limitations and lack of understanding had led to a lackluster season, and his own vow of silence had allowed a quiet rage to build.

Then, on that fateful day, he was riding coach, mobbed by the plebeians, on his way to New York to visit his euro trash wife, who was actually a hybrid lizard overlord / monitor lizard (they were star crossed lovers, thats another book in itself), he tried to get a bucket of gruel from his personal airline attendant, unfortunately, his usual gruel dealing attendent had the day off and it was an intern from his PR department. He brought him a flask of mead instead and Beckham seriously flipped his shit.

Beckham had lived through plagues, fires, sandstorms, and droughts. He had overseen the slaughter of infants, fires that destroyed towns. He had taken his part in banditry along trade routes that cut the lifeblood of towns and caused mass starvation. He had slaughtered thousands of animals and made intricate tapestries of their innards.

This was a demon who spent his youth in bloodlust and drinking eyeball fluid on a whim. He was not of the rest of the world and his great power and immortality had left him imbalanced and petty.

He had endured the drama of people for centuries. He had seen them kill each other and live in misery. He had also spent a lot of time killing them and making sure they lived in misery.

But he really did not fucking like mead.

The rage of misunderstanding and the pressure of living in a new media centric culture that had not evolved through the centuries with his presence had taken a toll, and the layers of false sophistication that had built up peeled away in an instant.

Beckhams rage exploded, as did his size, his frame tore the plane to pieces, tossing the helpless passengers to the ground in an ironic mercy, sparing them from the coming armageddon. He spun, hovering, ever expanding to monstrous proportions, and then hurled furiously to the ground, landing, crouched in a cornfield.

The impact spread in a furious burst of energy, the husks seared, and then burst in flame. mega-Beckham stood and strode towards the nearest lights.